


when you're ready

by megancrtr



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-25
Updated: 2018-06-25
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megancrtr/pseuds/megancrtr
Summary: The Aces’ director of communications gets the call at 3:13 a.m.Jack Zimmermann has withdrawn from the draft.





	when you're ready

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I know that no organization in their right mind would function like this and that the comms role never takes center stage as depicted below, but like, ehh.

—

Kaleah went to bed at 3 a.m., exhausted: mentally, physically.

It had been a long day before the draft, finalizing statements and overseeing video compilations.

It had been long days before the draft, the Aces saying first Zimmermann then maybe Parson then Zimmermann again. Back and forth and back and forth in closed-door meetings that took too long, that Kaleah didn’t need to be a part of but was included in anyway. By the end of it, when the Aces finally settled on Zimmermann as first pick, Kaleah could repeat each campaign and every message they could possibly use for either player verbatim, without a glance at the prepared decks.

If Kaleah never planned another first-pick draft day for the Aces in her life, it would be too soon.

Kaleah went to bed at 3 a.m., exhausted: physically, mentally.

Kaleah wakes up at 3:13 a.m.

Her phone is blaring.

It’s not her alarm.

She answers, mumbles out something, maybe it’s, “Hello.” Maybe it’s, “What the fuck.” It’s probably something somewhere in between.

“Kaleah,” someone says. Deb, Kaleah’s mind supplies after a beat too long. “Kaleah, we need you back in here.”

Kaleah groans and sits up, wipes at her eyes, switches on the hotel’s table light. If it were anyone else calling, Kaleah would tell them to call Mika, Kaleah’s only intern for the off-season. If it were anyone else, Kaleah would treat herself to some well deserved peace and quiet. But it’s not anyone else, it’s their GM’s assistant. So instead, Kaleah sits up in her hotel bed and forms the mildly coherent question of, “What happened?”

“Zimmermann pulled out of the draft,” Deb says.

Kaleah drops the phone. She scrambles to pick it up, her feet already on the ground. “Are you serious?”

“No, I’m calling at fucking 3 a.m. to lie to you.”

Kaleah opens the closet, pulls off her pants. Pulls on other pants. “What happened?”

Deb sighs heavily into the phone. “There are police reports...”

Kaleah freezes, her pants unbuttoned and a blouse hanging in her free hand. If this. This is. She can't believe it. Kaleah doesn’t even know where to begin on this. Fuck.

They already have a jersey with Zimmermann’s name on it.

“They’re saying drug overdose,” Deb says.

“They’re saying…” Kaleah almost drops her blouse. Almost.

“Drug overdose.”

“Shit,” Kaleah says. “My God.” She takes the phone away for a second to shrug out of her t-shirt and into the blouse. When she picks up Deb’s saying, “Parson is his—”

“His best friend,” Kaleah finishes, tugging down her hem, running a quick hand through her hair, checking to make sure everything is on the right way in the bathroom mirror. Shit. She buttons her slacks. “If Zimmermann was doing drugs—”

“Parson was probably doing them, too.”

Kaleah has absolutely nothing to say, because. Well.

“We’re all meeting in Tom’s room,” Deb says. “I’ll see you in five? Room 435.”

Kaleah grabs her purse, throws in her wallet, a charger. She stuffs in her laptop. “What hospital are they at?” Because if Kaleah learned anything about the boys through watching every single piece of media they’d ever done, it was that where one was, the other would likely be.

“You’re not going to the hospital.”

Kaleah toes into a pair of heels, bringing her height to 5’5”. “When the media hears—”

“They haven’t heard anything yet.”

“Deb.”

“Kaleah,” Deb says with a sigh, and now that Kaleah’s listening closely, she can hear Deb getting dressed, too. “We’re not even sure if we’re still going to go with Parson. If he’s doing drugs, too, well, Tom thinks we should go for Jackson. Kaleah, right before the draft. Fuck. Like, fuck.”

Then Kaleah freezes, reality catching up with her. A boy, barely 18 years old, is in the hospital for drug overdose. It was so bad he withdrew from the draft, even though teams can sign players up to two years after drafting them. It’s serious. Life threatening serious. Two years recovery serious. Whatever happened has to be so serious and terrifying and—“He’s alright, right?” Kaleah swallows when Deb doesn’t say anything. “Jack?”

“I don’t…” Deb clears her throat. “I honestly don’t know. I just know he’s not dead.”

—

At 5:17 a.m. Kaleah is sitting in the hospital, staring at a very pale Kent Parson sitting on the floor. He doesn’t even have on pants, just a pair of boxers. He has on a shirt though. But it’s stained with what might be vomit. His hair is all over the place. His eyes are rimmed red. He has dark, drooping circles under his eyes. He’s holding a paper coffee cup.

Kaleah’s pretty sure the cup’s empty. God. She wants coffee.

Zimmermann’s father is sitting on the floor next to Parson. His wife is walking around the room, reading the posters on the walls. They’re in a doctor’s office. The only free room in the hospital they could get.

On one side of Kaleah is Deb. On the other side is Tom. They pulled extra chairs into the room, but Kaleah thinks her, Tom, and Deb should be on the floor like Parson and Mr. Zimmermann.

Like this, Kaleah feels as if she’s about to begin an interrogation, looking down at the accused. This is definitely not in her job description. This is definitely not in any Aces’ personnel's job description. But here she is. Here are Deb and Tom. The room is cold, the lights are harsh, and she’s part of a panel of three staring at this kid, sitting on the floor, ready to judge whether he’s still good enough for them. She can’t believe they’re doing this. It probably breaks all sorts of policies. Infringements on privacy. But if there’s something she’s learned in hockey, it’s that there are few borders they won’t cross. For better or for worst.

Tom shifts, takes a breath and says, “We need to ask you a few questions.”

“I already gave you interviews before the draft,” Parson says. He’s looking down into his cup.

“Given the circumstances—”

“Tom,” Mr. Zimmermann says, and Tom says, “Bob.”

“Tom,” Mr. Zimmermann says again, “I don’t think this is the best time.”

They go on talking, arguing politely and then not so politely. Mr. Zimmermann and Tom. Legendary player and Aces GM. They used to play together once. Won the Cup together, twice. Kaleah sort of listens, but mostly she watches Parson. He keeps his head down, a finger tapping rapidly, unceasingly against the side of the paper cup. “Do you want more coffee?” Kaleah finally asks him. Parson doesn’t look up. “Parson,” she says, and then amends herself, “Kent.”

Kent looks up.

“Let’s go get you another cup of coffee.”

“Kaleah,” Tom says.

“We’re just getting coffee,” Kaleah says, and she stands up, a little clumsily. She tugs down her shirt. “I promise. We’re not going to talk about anything. I honestly don’t care.” After a time, Kent stands, too.

They get coffee at the cafeteria, sit down at a table. If Kaleah isn’t looking too closely, she supposes Kent could pass for wearing shorts, and his vomit-stained shirt might be the latest graphic print the kids are into. They drink their coffees. Kaleah sends out some texts, asks Mika to go to the front desk and get access to Kent’s room, grab him some clothing. The league’s paying for the room. In theory—with some strong arming and heavy almost lies—Mika can get in.

When Kaleah and Kent are done, no one is in the room they left. Instead, Tom and Deb are staring off into space in the hallway, and the Zimmermanns aren’t looking at one another. Mika is there with the bag for Kent.

He takes it and goes to change.

—

It’s 7:07, and Kaleah left the discussions at the hotel about whether or not they should choose Parson about an hour ago. The conversations went like this: “What if he does drugs?” “I don’t need another kid who washes up in less than a year.” “He looked super fucked up.” “If these are the friends he chooses.” “Will this change the way he plays?” “Can he keep whatever the fuck just happened off the ice?” “I wish the Combine hadn’t happened yet.” “Who else are we going to get then?” “We weren’t looking for speed on the ice.” “Is speed a bad thing?” “One kind of speed is.”

—

It’s 7:15, and Kaleah finds herself next to Mrs. Zimmermann, back at the hospital. The Zimmermanns still haven’t been allowed in the room to see their son. Kaleah isn’t certain why she’s back at the hospital. Maybe because Tom and Deb are still here. Somewhere. Maybe because Kaleah wants to know everything is okay. She spent the entire year researching Zimmermann, pulling together campaigns and quotes and ideas for community outreach. Things she’d think he’d like to do, causes he’d like to take up. She feels like she knows him well, intimately even. They’ve never spoken to one another before.

“Does the NDA you have with the Aces still apply to my son?” Mrs. Zimmermann asks. Kaleah feels like a punch to the gut. It feels like Mrs. Zimmermann caught Kaleah thinking like she knew Zimmermann.

“I don’t really want to know what happened,” Kaleah finally says and finds, almost surprisingly, that she’s being honest. Three hours ago it wouldn't have been the truth. Now, Kaleah doesn’t want to know the details about another kid who came so close and didn’t make it. She reads about them all the time. She’s met too many of them. Talked to the press about a few. She doesn’t want to know what happened.

Kaleah just wants Zimmermann to be okay.

Mrs. Zimmerman nods in understanding. She looks down at her cup of coffee. She walks a little down the hallway, a little up the hallway. Her son is behind that window she keeps passing. It has a curtain pulled in front of it. Mika texts. Wants to know if there’s anything else she can do. But no, there’s not. They’re just on standby until management makes a decision. They’re fucked if management doesn’t go with Parson. Kaleah knows jackshit about Jackson, but she’s pulling some information anyway.

Mrs. Zimmermann looks up as the door to the room opens. The nurse comes out and doesn’t make eye contact. She leaves the hallway.

Kaleah looks down at her phone, texts to ask Deb if they’ve decided on a player yet. When Kaleah looks up, Mrs. Zimmermann is looking at her. Her eyes are wet, and Kaleah notices for the first time how Mrs. Zimmermann’s hair is out of place. Kaleah’s mom used to talk about Mrs. Zimmermann. About Alicia strutting down runways and starring in gritty films where only sometimes the man won her heart.

Mrs. Zimmermann rubs a hand into her chest, right below her collarbone. The fabric of the t-shirt crumples as she takes a shuddering breath. “They’re saying it’s suicide.” Her voice cracks. “Attempted suicide.” Mrs. Zimmermann turns away to look at the pulled curtain. “Attempted,” she says between two stumbling breaths.

Kaleah feels sick. She didn’t want to know.

—

At 7:35 management decides to go with Parson. Kaleah gets notified via text, and she turns to her right to let Mika know. The communication plan she thought they wouldn’t use starts to go into effect. Kaleah fires off texts and the behind-the-scenes work begins: her team formats one press release instead of the other, rewrites the talking points for Tom. Sends instructions for a new drafting jersey to be made up.

Kaleah looks up from her phone as Parson leaves the hallway. He doesn’t have his suit on yet. It makes sense; the draft isn’t for another eleven hours. But all the clothing Mika brought him looks so loose on his frame. It doesn’t even look like he bought it in the first place.

Kaleah looks at the shirt and blinks. It has the wrong number on it. The shirt is Zimmermann’s. Kaleah looks over at Mika. She’s tapping silently on her phone.

—

The day cranks along to 8:13 a.m. and Kaleah wants Zimmermann to wake up already. Because Kent is sitting on the ground, slumped against a wall, and Mrs. Zimmermann’s heels keep clicking, and Mr. Zimmermann keeps storming in and out of the hallway, and Tom keeps stepping into and out of an empty room, talking loudly on his phone.

Kaleah thought Mr. Zimmermann would’ve cracked already, snapped at Tom about needing space and respecting boundaries. But Tom and Mr. Zimmermann played together on the ice. Seven years as linies. But that doesn’t make her being here, doesn’t make Tom being here, right.

Kaleah spins her phone between her fingers, consciously tells herself not to pace and wonders where Mrs. Parson is. Ms. Parson, Kaleah corrects herself and then berates herself, because she knows where Ms. Parson is. Ms. Parson is six hours away, taking care of three younger girls and working impossible hours at a hospital.

Parson would talk about his sisters in interviews. Kelly, Katie, and Kaley. Currently fifteen, thirteen and twelve. They’re Parson’s half-sisters. The mom, her name is Kim.

Kim Parson. Kim, Kent, Kelly, Katie and Kaley.

The dad. Parson’s dad was named Mike. Mike Parson. Mike Parson died in a construction accident.

Kelly, Katie and Kaley are John Miller’s and Kim Parson’s kids. All of the kids are Kim Parson’s. Kim Parson who works long hours at the hospital and who, as Parson says in every interview he’s asked why his parents can’t make, “My mom is making more of a difference than I’ll ever make. She’s saving lives. I understand why she can’t be here.”

John Miller never attends games because he doesn’t remember his kids. Concussion. Hockey. Four years ago.

John Miller is where Parson learned French. He never played in anything higher than the AHL, was never drafted.

But Parson never talks about that. Deb hired a PI back when they first started scouting Parson. Like she had done for Jack, too. It was standard industry practice. She wonders how they didn’t catch this.

“Kaleah?”

Parson is looking up at her from about three feet away. She waits for him to continue talking.

“What’s the girl’s name? Who got me the clothing?”

Kaleah blinks. She doesn’t know what she was expecting from Parson, but it wasn’t this. Oh fuck. She hopes Parson doesn’t try and pick Mika up. They have stipulations about that in Mika’s contract. She doesn’t want to put her in an awkward situation before pre-season even hits.

“I just—” Parson shakes his head. “I said thanks but didn’t get her name. It’s rude, you know? Rude that someone does something and then you don’t get their name. My mom, my mom would be so—”

“It’s Mika,” Kaleah cuts across Parson quickly, because he’s starting to ramble, and if there’s anything Kaleah knows, it’s that hockey players say things they regret when they ramble. People say things they regret when they ramble. She always tells them not to do that in media training. “Her name is Mika,” Kaleah repeats, trying to say it softer, sweeter. She doesn’t quite succeed.

“Okay,” Parson says. He ducks his head back down to his phone. “Thanks.”

—

It’s 9:35, and people are finally awake for draft day. Kaleah’s phone begins ringing nonstop until she silences it. She has reporters calling for interviews, and she has colleagues asking for answers. Instead of providing responses, Kaleah is in an NHL, company wide PR meeting. All the directors of communications are here. They’re running through a communications strategy, and the meeting goes like this:

Janice, the head of communications across the league, says, “Jack Zimmermann is no longer in the draft. You are not to talk to any media about him. You can tell media you’re reevaluating picks. You cannot speculate with any media about what happened. You ‘no comment’ any question about Jack Zimmermann. You tell them, ‘Bad Bob has asked for privacy.’”

Then Puja from the Schooners goes, “What do we say about Kent Parson?”

“Bad Bob ask for privacy for him to?” Alisha from the Falconers asks.

“We,” Janice says stiffly and with an even glare over all the gathered directors of comm, “are going to be fucking decent human beings. Don’t know what that means? It means give everyone space, give them privacy. In less than twelve hours, Kent Parson is officially going to be part of the NHL family, and he gets our protection from the media starting now. Continuing for-fucking-ever. Just like Bad Bob and his family gets. Got it?” Janice glares.

There are shameful mumbles of agreement. Kaleah feels some righteous fury go through her. Damn right there should be shameful mumbles of agreement. Kaleah tries not to think about how hypercritical she’s being, considering this morning.

Kaleah still hasn’t heard from Deb or Tom whether Zimmermann has woken up yet.

—

When the meeting ends at 10:17, Janice calls Kaleah over. “Everything okay?”

Kaleah shrugs, because what else can you really say to the director of communications for the entire NHL when the first draft pick withdrew and is allegedly in the hospital for an overdose, but it’s really attempted suicide? Even though Janice doesn’t know that last part. God. No one else can ever know the last part. Janice looks like she’s expecting an actual answer from Kaleah. Kaleah digs up some words, “We’re handling. I don’t think there’s anything you can do.” She doesn't say that Zimmermann's fine, because she has no clue.

Janice doesn’t look like she expected anything different from her. Janice nods. “We’re working with Bad Bob’s publicist to draft a statement, officially asking for privacy.”

“Parson’s agent?” Kaleah thinks of the boy sitting in the hallway and hopes to God his agent is working some magic.

But Janice shakes her head. “Parson doesn’t want to put out a statement. He wants to do the after draft interviews like everyone else, too.”

“He wants to—” Kaleah almost forgets to breathe. “Christ. No statement?”

“Nothing. Apparently he just wants it to die—”

“It’s not going—”

“Parson’s not listening to anyone, apparently. Wants to not say a word about it, pretend it didn’t happen.”

“He’s at the fucking hospital, and—” Kaleah cuts herself off. Shakes her head.

“You’ve been at the hospital? You’ve seen him?”

Kaleah gives Janice a look. She should know better than to ask. She literally just told everyone to give the kid privacy. Even though Kaleah blatantly ignored that herself when she went. But Deb and Tom went, and, well, Kaleah needs to be wherever those two are.

Janice flushes. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just… I’m concerned, you know? We’ve never—He’s so young. They both are.”

Kaleah softens, agrees. Fuck, Kaleah agrees so much. But they’re not the youngest who’ve had this happen to them. They’re just the most recent.

“I’m going to talk with the interviewers, Sam and Kristen. Okay?” Janice continues. “Brief them. They’re good people they won’t… They won’t throw him under the bus. They’re our people. NHL.”

“They probably shouldn’t mention Zimmermann at all,” Kaleah says. “Parson… he’s.” Kaleah doesn’t know how to continue. Doesn’t know how to say Parson’s been walking around in clothing with Zimmermann’s number on it. How he hasn’t left the hospital for hours. Doesn’t think it’s something she wants to spread around, even if Janice is, well, Janice. Kaleah doesn’t think she respects anyone in PR more than Janice. She does the best she can with all the shitty situations she gets thrown into. But this… it’s private. Kaleah shouldn’t have even been there this morning. But she was.

“I got it,” Janice says. “I understand.”

“How are things going with you? Can I support at all?”

Janice laughs. Kaleah grins a little back. Because yeah, she supposes she should know better. For the past year and a half, they’ve been playing up the Zimmermann-Parson friends and rivals angle. The notes they have typed up for announcers, the promos they have set for the draft, the video segments put together, everything is Zimmermann-Parson.

Janice has less than seven hours to rewrite the whole narrative and make sure all the announcers, media and broadcasters are on board.

“We’re trying to find enough footage of Jackson to fill the gaps, but...” Janice shrugs. Kaleah’s got nothing but empathy. The entire narrative of the draft is totally gone, and they can’t even use the story of Zimmermann overdosing to fill the gaps, because—fuck—what could be more insensitive?

—

Kaleah calls back Doug from ESPN at 12:11. She’s freshly showered, in new clothing, and feeling worlds better.

“Kaleah,” Doug says in greeting instead of, “Hello,” or “Good to hear from you,” or “Thanks for calling back.” But that’s reporters, Kaleah supposes. Anything else would just be wrong. “I heard what happened.”

“Doug,” Kaleah says in greeting. “I'm flattered you called me instead of Janice.”

“We both know she's got her hands full.”

Kaleah hums in agreement, and then says, “I’m certain I know you're question, but I'm going to start by telling you that I have very limited information to share—extremely limited. But I called you back because I like working with you. You’re a good reporter.”

“Shucks,” Doug says. Then, not even a beat later, “What can you tell me about the Jack Zimmermann situation?”

Journalists. Kaleah rolls her eyes and goes to find a cup of coffee not made in a hospital or in a hotel room. Starbucks sounds really good. She heads in that general direction, out of the room and to the elevator. “Why would I know anything about that?”

“I have an eyewitness saying you were there in the hospital.”

“No one knows who I am in Ottawa, Doug. No one even knows who I am in Vegas.”

“That’s true. But I’ve got you on a security camera.”

Kaleah snorts. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah, my friend Barb dug it up.” Doug pauses. Kaleah waits for him, because reporters are good at listening, but they also love to talk. “So,” he says slowly, softly. It puts Kaleah a little off-kilter, because, well, she’s never heard Doug soft before. Sports reporters are a constant barrage of loud and annoying and brash. “Off the record?”

Kaleah frowns as she heads down the street. She’s never been off the record with Doug before. She trusts him, she guesses. Maybe about as far as Swoops could throw him. So not a lot, but not not-at-all. “Sure,” she finally says.

Doug takes a deep breath. “Is everyone okay? Like? Alive and well and okay? I was hearing some. Well, I was hearing some not so great stuff, and I just want to make sure everyone’s good.”

“Everyone?”

“I saw the report with Jack, know there’s a first responder call, figured it was probably Kent. But. But just want to make sure Kent’s okay, too.”

Kaleah wonders how to answer it. Because she doesn’t know yet, if everyone’s good. But, she knows, “Everyone’s alive.”

Silence means Doug probably recognizes what she didn’t say anyway. Reporters are like that. The good ones anyway. “Shit,” Doug says. “Holy shit.”

“I think it’s going to be okay,” Kaleah continues. “I’m not usually a praying girl, but I’m—”

“Praying,” Doug says with her. He says, “Me too.”

“On the record,” Kaleah says. “On the record, Bad Bob should be releasing a statement today asking for privacy. We’re also currently expecting Parson to give on-the-air post-draft comments. Now this is off the record—but let the others know—if I hear of anyone berating either of the prospects or their families for interviews, I’m going to block them from my locker room and send their name onto Janice. We are not fucking around here.”

“Got it,” Doug says. “I’m not saying I’m not going to write long form about drug abuse in the NHL, but I’ve got it. No talking to Parse or Zimms. Unless they call me first.”

Kaleah snorts and makes it to the Starbucks. She pushes inside and just the scent of coffee makes her feel better. “No one is going to call you first. We’d all go to Katherine before you, and you know it.”

“She has a way with words,” Doug agrees. “Hey, Kaleah, are you in a Starbucks?”

“I need so much caffeine right now,” Kaleah says. Doug snorts and hangs up. No, “Have a good day,” or, “Thanks for taking the time to talk,” or, “Talk to you soon.” But then, Kaleah never expected anything else from sports writers.

Kaleah orders coffee for her, and then coffee for everyone else she thinks will be at the hospital still.

She shoots off a text to Jameson, their captain’s agent, while she’s waiting for her order. She wants to make sure Hens is still ready to go. She wouldn’t put it past him to be a little drunk, and she wants him 100 percent sober for this. He cannot fuck it up. Any other draft day, maybe, but not this one. Definitely not this one. Not now. Kaleah reminds Jameson she’ll have Hens’ statement ready to go, two sentences. Nice and easy.

She sends a text to Mika, reminds her to change the name and print it out.

—

At 1:37, Kaleah carries coffee to Zimmermann’s new room on the fifth floor of the hospital. Deb and Tom are outside in the hallway. They’re sharing a discarded hospital bed, sitting with their backs to the wall. Kaleah wonders why they haven’t left yet. Why they haven’t given the family their privacy. Their family and Parson, Kaleah corrects in her head. But then she wonders if the distinction is necessary at all. Wonders why she’s wondering about it, because it’s none of her business whether the Zimmermanns have all but adopted Parson as a second son or not.

Deb takes a coffee with a, “Thank you,” and Tom takes his with a grunt. Deb fills her in, quickly, quietly. “He woke up for probably about a minute. They moved him up here not long after. Bad Bob’s been talking with his agent—”

“Drafting a release with the NHL,” Kaleah interrupts just as softly, rapidly. “We’re just helping on the language—It’s not a joint release or anything like that.”  
  
Deb takes that in, also takes a big gulp of coffee. Kaleah understands. She needed her coffee, too. Deb continues, “Parson’s been texting his agent, who’s been talking to us. If you talked to Janice—” Deb shoots Kaleah a questioning look, and Kaleah nods. “Well, then you already know he isn’t interested in putting out a statement. He isn’t interested in skipping the draft interviews. And that’s all I have.”

Kaleah looks at the room they’re sitting across from. The shades are drawn, the door is shut. Good. She thinks. Good the Zimmermanns aren’t letting them in there. They shouldn’t be letting them in there.

Then Kaleah circles back to what Deb said. “Wait, the draft interviews? With actual media after the draft? I thought we were just having him do the ones with the NHL team.”

Deb shakes her head. “He wants to do media interviews, too. ESPN, CNN, the beats, whoever’s there.”

It’s such a bad idea, Kaleah can’t believe it.

“Why?”

Deb shrugs.

Kaleah sits back, stares at the room. She gets a text from Mika. The statement is done, but she now has reporters calling her. Kaleah asks for names, because calling an intern—especially her intern—in a time of crisis is rude, and they should know better.

—

At 2:15, Janice texts Kaleah. Janice doesn’t have time to prep Parson for the media. The statement went live, and she’s been fielding media non-stop even though it's Zimmermann's publicist listed as the person of contact. Janice needs Kaleah to prep Parson. Tells Kaleah to do it. Kaleah frowns down at her screen phone but agrees, because Janice needs her, because Janice will undoubtedly save Kaleah’s ass some other time. Likely in the near future. Probably during the draft.

Kaleah still doesn’t think Parson should be doing media, though. She thumbs open the Zimmermanns’ statement reads through it. Short and sweet. The highlights: Please give us—the Zimmermanns—our privacy; our son will not be in the upcoming draft; we thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers.

—

Parson walks out of the room, and it’s 3:12 p.m. Deb is gone. Tom is gone. It’s just Kaleah, waiting for Parson because Janice asked her to prep him.

He starts a little when he sees her. Then shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, breathes out a slow, shaky breath. His eyes are red, dark underneath. He rubs at them, like he noticed Kaleah looking. “You’re still here?”

Kaleah’s heart aches.

“Yeah,” she says, getting off the bed. “Janice, the NHL director of communications, asked me to prep you for the draft media. She has a lot going on right now.”

Parson shakes his head, starts to walk away. “I’m fine. I’ve got it.”  
  
Kaleah grabs his arm, and Parson jerks away. Kaleah’s hand comes away damp, sweaty. Kaleah clears her throat, and Parson's gaze moves away from her hand. Kaleah says, “I only wanted to make sure you know they’re going to ask about Zi—Jack. We, the NHL, we want to make sure you’re comfortable, that you don’t say something you’ll regret.”

Parson laughs something sharp and hard. He chokes off words twice before he can get a sentence out. “This is—was supposed to be, like, one of the best days of my life. You know? Instead, it’s the fucking worst. So don’t worry,” Parson says. “I don’t think there’s anything I can say which will make today worse.”

Kaleah’s heart breaks. Because yeah. Yeah, that sums it up she guesses. But media is still her job. Parson is still her job, will be her player to take care of soon, and she can’t let his media interviews start poorly. Or worse than they’ll already be. “Let’s grab coffee?”

Parson shakes his head, straightens up a little. “I don’t think coffee’s a good idea for me right now. I don’t think this—” he motions between the two of them, “—is a good idea either. I should really go sleep.” He starts to walk away, and Kaleah sucks in breath. She hasn’t slept but Parson—

“You haven’t—”

Parson spins around, glaring, throwing his arms out. “When the fuck would I’ve slept? When he was in the ambulance? When he wasn’t waking up? When all of you were being nosey little shits?”

Kaleah holds Parson’s gaze. She doesn’t drop it. He does suddenly, his neck flushed, arms dropping, body slouching. He mumbles something she can’t hear, and Kaleah steps forward quickly.

“No, you’re right,” she says. Parson doesn’t look up, but he also doesn’t move away. “We were. We were awful and insensitive, and I’m sorry.” Kaleah clears her throat. She looks towards the end of the hallway. “You should sleep, but I also need to talk to you about the media. Make sure you’re going to be okay. Why don’t I walk with you back to the hotel room? And that’ll be it. That’ll be all the media talk we’ll do.”

Parson shifts. Mr. Zimmermann opens the door. Kaleah and Parson look at him.

“Everything okay, Kent?” Mr. Zimmermann asks, looking between the two of them. He settles his gaze on Parson. “I heard shouting. Do you need—”

“It’s fine,” Parson says. He shoves his hands into his pockets. He jerks his head towards Kaleah. “She’s going to prep me for the media.”

“Kent, I don’t—”

“Bye, Mr. Zimmermann. Let’s go,” Parson says to Kaleah, and Kaleah follows along as they walk down the hall. Her heels loud and echoing. “Alright,” Parson says. “Start talking.”

So Kaleah does. “We’ve talked to the media already and have asked for privacy for you and the Zimmermann family. We also told them not to ask any questions but—”

“Someone’s always an asshole.”

Kaleah feels the corners of her lips quirk a smile. “Right.” They make it to the elevator, and Kaleah is suddenly well aware that there has been no one else on this floor. It gives her pause. But then Parson shoots her a look, and Kaleah continues. “If someone asks about what happened to Jack, we suggest that you tell them that you don’t want to talk about it, that it is a private issue and that you ask them to give you and the family privacy.” She pauses.

“Private matter deserves privacy,” Parson summarizes.

“Yes.” They’re outside the hospital now, maneuvering between people. “If they ask about Jack going first, we suggest you say—”

“It doesn’t really matter,” Parson cuts her off quickly. “I’ll tell them it doesn’t matter who would’ve gone first or second. I just want him to get better, be back out on the ice. With me, against me, it doesn’t matter. We were both great players.”

“Are,” Kaleah corrects. Parson freezes. Kaleah keeps walking. She trusts him to catch up. He’s shaking, but he does. Kaleah continues, “Make sure you use the present tense. He’s not dead.”

Parson nods stiffly. Clears his throat. “Yeah. I know that.” Kaleah has more she wants to say, but they’ve reached the hotel, and Parson barely says goodbye.

Kaleah watches him go, the number one stark on his back.

—

It’s 4:35 p.m. when Kaleah walks into the arena, badge bumping against her chest. She makes the rounds quickly, another coffee in her hand, saying hello to the other directors of comm. She checks in with Mika at the Aces’ table. She tries to discreetly lift the jersey and check the name on it. She doesn’t think anyone sees it.

“Good job,” she tells Mika.

“The statement,” Mika says and passes over the paper for Hens to read off of. Kaleah skims it, the font big enough to read with glances.

“Thanks,” Kaleah says. “Jameson texted and said he was already here, fraternizing with some of the other players. Have you seen him?”

A smile tugs at the corner of Mika’s lips. Kaleah grins back. Her intern knows. Her intern is lifesaving. Mike directs Kaleah over to the Aero’s table. “He looked sober, too. I know you mentioned being worried about that. He’s also trying to get the details about...” Mika trails off and shrugs. “Just wanted to let you know.”

“It’s good we don’t have any then, right?” Kaleah says. She doesn’t think about what Mrs. Zimmermann said. She doesn’t think about Parson wearing Zimmermann’s clothing.

—

At 6:53 p.m., Kaleah does a loop around where Parson should be. He’s not there.

—

The draft starts right on the dot: 7 p.m. Kaleah can’t do anything else. Her hands are tied. The director of the NHL walks onto the stage. Kaleah doesn’t really listen. Janice hovers in the background the whole time, likely right off camera. Janice looks stressed. Kaleah feels stressed, even though there’s nothing left for her to do.

Except hope Parson makes it.

Kaleah’s just on the floor. Checking her phone, praying a little. For Parson to make it to the draft, for Zimmermann to get better, for Parson to get better. For the entire NHL to get better. For a lot of things, she guesses.

Mika slides back into her seat right as the speech finishes up. “You can stop worrying,” Mike says. “Kent made it. Took his seat right as the program started.”

It doesn’t really make Kaleah stop worrying.

—

Hens begins talking at 7:36. He doesn’t have the paper, and Kaleah’s heart is in her throat, because if he screws this up—but Hens doesn’t. He says Parson’s hockey team, hometown and name without stumbling, without a second thought, as if Parson had always been their chosen one. Says a couple words of welcome.

Kaleah watches Parson climb onto the stage, jacket off. He shakes hands with everyone, very professional, very polished. From what Kaleah can tell, no one says more than a quick, “Congratulations.” No one makes the moment bigger, more emotional than any other draft day. Good. They’d talked about that. Parson shrugs into the jersey, and thanks Ben for the hat. Parson smooths his hair down, puts the hat on. As if this is just another day in his life.

If Kaleah hadn’t seen him earlier, she wouldn’t know anything was wrong in his life.

—

Kaleah is standing in front of the media pool, glaring at 7:45 p.m. Parson will be here in minutes, after he’s done the NHL interview with Sam and Kristen, the interviewers who know better than to ask the insensitive questions.

“You will not,” she says to the twenty-three press in front of her. “You will not,” she repeats, “ask Parson anything related to this morning.”

“What happened this morning, Kaleah?” one of the shitheads asks. Kaleah glares until the actual chuckling goes to nervous chuckling goes to silence.

“I’m not kidding,” she says. “Janice and I will take away your credentials and that’s the last your pub will see of them for a very long time.”

“Relax,” Doug says. He’s in the second row. “Janice already told us how you’d break our balls and then she’d castrate us. We’ve got it.”

—

Kaleah is ready to break balls at 8:01, because an almost no-name pub is asking Parson about Zimmermann. She feels like she’s about to murder him, this dick. His name is Martin. Martin Huckins.

Parson doesn’t freeze at the question, “Do you think Zimmermann would’ve gone first if he was here?” Parson doesn’t anger. He goes carefully, perfectly blank, and then he smiles, something this side of cocky. He says, “It didn’t really matter to us. First or second. We already knew we were the best. Are. We know we’re still the best. Any organization would be happy to have us, and I’m excited to play for the Aces. It’s going to be a great season.”

Kaleah doesn’t know if she’s proud of his composure or horrified.

—

Martin Huckins loses his credentials at 8:07 p.m. Kaleah gets security to escort him out right then and there. He’s cursing at her, and Kaleah narrows her eyes. He knew the rules.

—

When 8:32 p.m. hits, the top three picks have been selected. They have a photo opp together. They have press, and Kaleah finds herself hovering in the background, just within earshot of everything, until Janice sweeps into the room. Kaleah ducks out then. Everything will be fine. Janice’s got it.

—

It’s 8:45 p.m. when Kaleah goes back to worrying about the rest of the draft. The Aces traded up for another first round pick. His name is Marc Boucher, born in Inuvik, Canada. It’s above the North Circle, closer to Russia than New York.

Marc has brilliant red hair and pasty, pasty skin. He climbs mountains for fun.

He is a defense man, and he’ll probably spend time in the minor leagues, but, until then, he’s Kaleah’s to worry about. She and Mika scramble to pull together a fact sheet, trying to piece together any problem points before he walks into the media room.

Not like anything could really be as bad as what Parson just faced, but, Kaleah supposes, everyone has their own demons.

—

Deb pulls Kaleah aside at 9:17 p.m. “Jack’s awake,” she says right into Kaleah’s ear. Then pulls away, waiting.

Kaleah doesn’t know what to say. Good? She’s happy? But what does it mean to her? Truly mean? Zimmermann is not one of her boys. Zimmermann will likely never be one of her boys, now. Parson is hers instead. Zimmermann was just a could’ve been. Is she happy he’s not comatosed? Yes. But he’s not her family. Her friend. Her responsibility. Not like Parson is now.

Kaleah doesn’t say as much. She smiles and tells Deb, “Good. I’m glad.” She is. She’s just not… dying for updates on Zimmermann. Not since the Aces decided on their pick.

“Me too. I couldn’t imagine…” Deb shakes her head.

“Me neither,” Kaleah says.

—

At 9:23 p.m., Kaleah finds out from Mika that Parson has left the draft. Kaleah looks up, scanning faces, the table where Parson should be, but he’s not there.

“You sure?” Kaleah asks, even though Mika rarely says anything she’s not sure of. It’s both a blessing and a character flaw.

—

When Kaleah thinks the day can’t get any longer and the draft after-party is going good enough that Kaleah can leave, Parson’s agent calls at 10:57 p.m. To let Kaleah know that Parson now has a new agent.

—

Parson’s new agent calls at 11:12 p.m. To let Kaleah know they are the new agent. Kaleah doesn’t really think she needs to know now. She tells the agent as much. The agent, Samantha, apologizes, “It’s just very sudden. He’s thinking about putting out a statement, and I wanted to make you aware.”

Kaleah ducks out of the party. “He wants to make a statement?”

“He’s thinking about it.”

Kaleah scrubs a hand down her face, steps into a bathroom. “We haven’t signed him yet,” Kaleah says as she checks under the stalls. When she doesn’t see any feet, she locks the door. “Technically, Parson's still under Janice’s jurisdiction. You should be talking to her about this.”

“I know. But he said he wanted you to help draft it.”

Kaleah leans against the row of sinks. She wonders if the party has an open coffee bar as well. Probably not. “I’m sorry, it’s not within my—”

“Kaleah,” Samantha says quickly, curtly. “The number one draft player just switched agents without giving me a proper reason, and while I am immensely flattered, I am also way over my head. His best friend just went to the hospital, the media don’t even know to call me yet, and I’d swear we should have this boy on suicide watch.”

Kaleah inhales sharply. There’s silence on the other end. “What did you just say?”

“I’m…” Samantha takes a deep, shuddering breath. Static cackles between them. “I really think something is wrong.”

It is not what Kaleah wants to hear. Instead, she tells Samantha she’ll draft something in the morning and get the Aces’ psychiatrist on the phone. Or something. “Give me two hours, and I’ll have something.”

“He wants to talk with you about it tonight. I've booked a room in the hotel where we can work.”

—

It's 12:12 a.m. and Kaleah meets Samantha for the first time. They shake hands, and then Parson shakes Kaleah’s hand. His hand is sweating. His eyes are red, and he's clutching a beer even though he's not yet 21. His knuckles are white, and his dress shirt is unbuttoned to his undershirt.

“Thanks for helping,” Kent says. Kaleah nods, and they sit in the little sitting room of the suite. Kaleah pulls out her laptop. She is so tired, and this could wait, but apparently they can't fucking wait.

“What do you want it to say?” Kaleah asks. She flips open the screen, pulls up a document and saves it before she forgets. Her fingers click over the keys. “I think it's best to ask for privacy, like the Zimmermann's statement—”

“I want to come out.”

Kaleah’s fingers keep going for half a second as she waits for Parson to say something more. When he doesn't, she looks up at him. He can't be serious, Kaleah thinks first. And then she realizes he is. His jaw is set. His face is wet. His knee bounces up and down. He swallows tightly, looks away from her and wipes at his eyes. And then it clicks. Zimmermann. She wants to ask how many people know. For how long. Does Zimmermann’s family know. Do other hockey players know.

“Is that fucking okay?” Parson demands in the silence.

Kaleah nods sharply, stiffly. Of course it's okay if Parson’s gay, if Parson comes out. They've been waiting for a gay professional athlete for years but—Kaleah remembers how Parson called 911, how Paron wore Zimmermann’s number, how Parson wouldn’t leave Jack’s side, how—Kaleah takes a deep breath, and asks, “Is Jack ready to come out, too?”

Parson freezes. Kaleah swallows and keeps going, “Because if you do, if you come out now, that's all the press will say. That that was the reason Jack cracked. That he couldn't handle the pressure of being a gay athlete. And instead of a story about drug abuse in the NHL, it's going to become a gay athlete story, and you won't be the focus, you'll be the side story. And the attention you're trying to take away from Jack will only double. Triple even.

“What will the press say? Things like: First two draft picks for 2009 gay; torrid hidden romance in NHL major juniors; NHL gay draft picks break under pressure.” Kaleah takes a breath at Parson’s whitening face. “I don't know if it's true,” she says. “I don't really deal with truths, but I can tell you what everyone is going to be saying, what narrative the media will make of it. And at the base of it, it’s going to be how a gay athlete cracked under the pressure and that gays aren’t fit for the NHL.”

“Only one of us cracked!” Parson snaps.

Kaleah grits her teeth, pretends Parson never spoke and says, “If you come out and if Jack is gay, you've outed him to the press. If he's not, well.” Kaleah shakes her head. “Well either way it wouldn't have been his choice.”

—

It's 12:47 a.m.

Kent Parson decides not to come out.

He can't look Kaleah or Samantha in the eye.

“When you're ready,” Kaleah says, “when you're ready, I'll write the statement. When you're ready, we'll have a press conference with media we like or we'll do an exclusive with the New York Times. When you're ready, we will be behind you all the way. Maybe you'll be with us still, maybe you'll be traded by then, but you will have the Aces’ support. You will have the NHL’s support, and you will always have my support.”

Kent puts his head into his hands.

Kaleah gets the Aces psychiatrist on the phone and leaves the room, taking Samantha with her.

—

Kaleah falls into bed at 2:12 a.m. fully clothed, praying to God her cell phone doesn’t go off.

—

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! [tumblr](https://megancrtr.tumblr.com/).


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